Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“After luring your son to the church door, she owes him an heir. I only question if her womb has not shriveled, since she has yet to bear a healthy child, and wonder whether she might not own more years than claimed when all agreed to the marriage contract.”

“Enough said. The matter is between husband and wife, or, as my son would prefer to think, between Man and God.” His tone left no doubt that he would tolerate no further discussion from her.

Failing to gain her husband’s support, she flushed with the public rebuke and turned her attention to Brother Thomas who sat on her other side.

Eleanor glanced down the table at Mistress Constance. Although the woman’s rigid posture and raised chin stayed firm, the sour cherry color rising in her cheeks suggested that Luce’s barb had pricked her otherwise armored skin.

“Please forgive my wife,” the steward muttered. “She is newly with child. Like many women in that condition, I’m told, her humors are often unbalanced and her speech can grow foolish.”

“Then that is the reason Mistress Maud is here.” Eleanor winced in embarrassment for speaking aloud what should have remained private thoughts. “Those words were unfortunate. I have no wish to pry into your private matters.”

The man’s eyebrows collided with barely suppressed anger. “The physician’s widow came at my request to advise my wife, although I fear my spouse betrays her feckless youth by refusing to take proper heed of the guidance given.”

The steward’s outburst was disquieting, and Eleanor tried to find words to cool that fury. “Nonetheless, Mistress Maud’s presence here was fortuitous, and I owe thanks for that both to you and to God. She is a skilled healer and has done much to help my sick companion. If the young woman lives, she will owe that recovery to her.”

“The widow has ever been a good woman,” he replied, his expression softening, “and tried to save my first wife from an untimely death. She failed, but her lack of success had nothing to do with incompetence. God was not willing to let my first wife’s pure soul stay longer amongst the sinful.”

“I have heard that they were friends. Your wife’s death must have been a cruel loss to you both then.”

Stevyn suddenly paled. In contrast, the pits in his face became as inflamed as a child’s pox.

Have I offended? Eleanor wondered, pressing a hand to her heart to calm the pounding.

“Husband!”

The steward swung around in his chair, his expression black as a gale at sea.

“Chase that stormy look from your face, my dearest lord.” Luce sat back and put her hand on her belly as if suggesting such rage would endanger the product of his seed. “Brother Thomas has asked if your younger son would play a song for us. Will you not grant your guest’s wish?”

Eleanor glanced at her monk, and an unbidden heat swiftly burned her cheeks. Mistress Luce had just reached over and laid a hand on his arm, her head tilted as she stared at him with openly sensual appreciation. Why is he smiling? Eleanor thought with an outrage based more in jealousy than any concern for the sanctity of his vocation.

“Forbid it!” Mistress Constance shouted. “Singing like some low-born, traveling minstrel is unsuitable for a man studying to be a priest.”

“Oh, let him sing his ditties, wife,” growled Ranulf, who began picking a back tooth with his fingernail. “My brother is no man and must only remember the words to songs that quieted his infant squalling.”

As Eleanor looked at the couple, with their long noses and tiny eyes, she was reminded of weasels.

“I like his singing, and, if Brother Thomas has requested it, such a thing cannot be unseemly.” Mistress Luce put her other hand on her husband’s arm and openly caressed it.

Ranulf’s eyes darted back and forth between monk and stepmother, then he leaned against the table as if suffering pains in his belly.

“Entertain us, Huet,” Stevyn said, brushing aside his wife’s hand. “If your voice is as pleasing as it was before you left, it may soothe your brother’s annoyance over your inexplicable return.”

“A sweet love song?” The younger son stood and bowed with an exaggerated gesture to his brother.

Master Stevyn’s stamp was most certainly upon that one with his muscular body and green eyes, Eleanor thought with chaste enough appreciation. Despite his mild mockery of his elder brother, however, Huet’s rounder face bore an agreeable gentleness that suggested a softer nature than his father possessed. Perhaps his mother had passed on all tenderness to her youngest since that quality seemed utterly lacking in Ranulf.

“Remember our guests, Huet!” the elder brother called out. “None of those bawdy things beloved by wicked students. Even you must know something more suitable for those who wisely honor God over sinful flesh.”

“Something I learned on my way through Arras, then.” Huet grinned. “If I sang the story of the prodigal son, would you find that proper enough, Ranulf?”

As if startled by the suggestion, the elder brother blinked, and then concurred with a cautious grunt.

No one’s faith should be so devoid of joy, Eleanor thought as she considered the expressions of Ranulf and Constance. Even after Adam and Eve had been expelled from Eden for their grave sins, God had not taken away honest pleasure nor forbidden the relief of benign laughter.

The steward’s youngest son picked up his small lute from under the bench, then walked to a position in front of the assembled guests at the high table. Briefly pausing to tune the instrument, he smiled and began to sing.

“What a beautiful voice!” Eleanor exclaimed in a whisper to Master Stevyn. “Did his mother…?”

“Neither of us can sing,” he replied. “Soon after Huet was born, I decided he must have been God’s special gift. He may have my bearing, but he has his mother’s…” Stevyn fell into a musing and forgot that he had been speaking.

Eleanor sat back, completely charmed by the younger son’s talented performance. With gesture and intonation, he painted each scene of the story. One moment, he was the willful lad, arguing with his father. Next, he became the grieving father, weeping as the son left home and knowing his beloved boy would suffer for his misguided decision. Huet was so skillful, she forgot where she was and instead imagined she was standing in front of some inn where the singer now played the part of the wayward lad, then errant women…

“I hope that did not offend, my lady.” Master Stevyn leaned to speak softly near the prioress’ ear.

“A cautionary tale, well-told, can never cause offense,” she replied, reluctantly emerging from the power of the performance. Then she happily plunged back into the mood of the story.

Huet had just transformed himself into the chastened son as he dragged himself homeward with a soul both weary and fearful. How would his father greet him? Would he cast him out?

Eleanor knew the story well, but Huet’s telling was so fresh that she wondered if it might not have a different ending.

With high notes of delight, the man sang of the father’s joy when he saw his lost son. As he flung one arm wide, Eleanor could see father and son embrace. Even the other son’s sourness at the feast, given to welcome the prodigal, was portrayed convincingly. When Huet finally came to an end, the prioress deeply regretted that the song and tale were over.

“Well done!”

Eleanor looked over and saw her monk gesturing with enthusiasm.

Next to him, Mistress Luce was so charmed that she seemed unaware that the hand she had laid on Thomas’ arm had been discarded.

“I suppose you meant to mock me!” Ranulf stood, his gaunt body shaking with rage. “Like the prodigal you celebrated, you have discarded all righteousness and now come home as if you expected our father to forgive all and kill the fatted calf for your sinfulness.”